Chapter 6 – Days 14-21
The morning began like any other.
The faint creaking of the wooden floor. The early rays of sunlight stretching through the windows. The quiet hum of the waking town outside.
The doctor opened his eyes slowly, letting the soft light warm his face.
He sat up, ran a hand through his hair, and stretched. His body ached slightly—just the usual stiffness of age and daily work. He pulled on his coat, stepped out of his room, and began his morning routine.
Boil water. Check the herb stock. Prepare the clinic area. Nothing unusual.
Except something was missing.
The corner.
He glanced toward the little corner of the room near the stairs—where Sylvie always sat quietly in the morning, broom in hand, waiting for instructions, or just calmly observing.
But it was empty.
He waited a few seconds, expecting her to show up with quiet steps like always.
But she didn't.
"Sylvie?" he called out.
No answer.
"Sylvie?"
Still nothing.
A tightness started to form in his chest.
He walked to the stairs and raised his voice slightly. "Sylvie?"
No sound came back.
He climbed the steps faster than usual, his hand brushing against the wall for balance. He reached her door, hesitated only a moment, then knocked.
"Sylvie. I'm coming in."
He pushed the door open.
What greeted him made his breath catch.
Sylvie lay curled under her thin blanket, face flushed, her breaths sharp and shallow. Sweat soaked her hair, and her forehead glistened under the dim light from the window. Her brows were furrowed, and her lips parted slightly as if she were whispering something in a fever dream.
He rushed to her side.
His hand touched her forehead.
Hot.
Burning hot.
The kind of fever that didn't just mean a cold—it meant danger. A fever like this could kill if left untreated.
But the doctor didn't panic.
His face stayed calm.
His body moved quickly.
He fetched water. He prepared towels. He measured and mixed herbs with practiced precision. He crushed roots, stirred powders, boiled mixtures.
And then he returned to her side.
"Drink this," he whispered, even though she couldn't respond.
He tilted her head gently and coaxed the bitter medicine past her lips. Some of it dripped down her chin. He wiped it away.
She coughed, whimpered faintly.
But she drank.
He stayed by her side the entire day.
And the day after that.
And the one after.
For seven days.
He barely left the room. Only to prepare new batches of medicine. Only to fetch water, or cool down a cloth, or briefly sleep for an hour or two with his head resting on her table.
And through it all, Sylvie—though delirious with fever—noticed.
Even in her haze, she saw the trembling in his hands as he fed her. The way his fingers shook slightly when wiping her face. The way he sat with his back hunched at the edge of the bed, eyes heavy with exhaustion, but always watching her with quiet worry.
He never raised his voice.
He never scolded.
He just… stayed.
Gentle.
Steady.
Even when she muttered in her sleep, sometimes saying things that made no sense—or whispered apologies to people who weren't there—he just brushed her hair back, and told her to rest.
On the fourth night, she opened her eyes for a few seconds.
The first thing she saw was the doctor asleep beside her bed, arms folded, head resting against the wooden table, breathing softly.
Her lips parted.
"…Master…"
Her voice was barely audible.
He didn't stir.
She looked at him quietly.
Then closed her eyes again.
By the seventh day, her fever had broken.
She could breathe again.
The burning ache in her chest was gone. Her limbs still felt weak, but her body didn't hurt. Her head no longer spun like it had.
That night—Day 21—she opened her eyes and found herself staring at the ceiling.
She turned her head.
The doctor was there, sleeping at the table again, arms crossed on the surface, his head buried in them. The candle beside him flickered gently, casting long shadows across the room.
Sylvie sat up slowly.
She didn't say anything.
She just… looked.
At him.
The man who had cared for her without hesitation. Who hadn't left her side even once. Who treated her not as a tool or a slave—but as someone important.
She stared for a long time.
Then her vision blurred.
A single tear slid down her cheek.
Then another.
She didn't sob.
She didn't cry out.
She just sat there, quietly, as warm tears ran down her face. Her hands trembled slightly as she pulled the blanket closer to her chest.
"…Thank you…" she whispered.
No one heard it.
But she said it anyway.
Then she smiled—just a little—as she reached out with trembling fingers, brushing a strand of hair from the doctor's sleeping face.
She pulled her hand back quickly, afraid of waking him.
But the moment passed.
She laid back down slowly, curled up under the blanket.
And for the first time in what felt like forever… she felt safe.
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To Be Continue